


Breaking all the things I'd wish to keep

by Elisexyz



Series: Febuwhump 2021 (TMFU) [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Guilt, Hurt Illya Kuryakin, Injury, Napoleon Solo And His Terrible Coping Mechanisms, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29556018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: Napoleon maintains that attempted murder cannot be classified as an "accident".
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Febuwhump 2021 (TMFU) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142537
Comments: 12
Kudos: 56
Collections: febuwhump 2021





	Breaking all the things I'd wish to keep

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the "identity reveal" Febuwhump alternative prompt. Does "oh shit, I shot the wrong person" count as identity reveal? I say it does.  
>  ...at this point I'm beginning to think that I just really enjoy Napoleon freaking out LOL.

He opens the door to find Illya, a few shades paler than it would be healthy and glaring at him. It would probably be a little more effective if he weren’t short of breath and leaning against the wall.

As it is, Napoleon barely registers the murderous look, instead focusing on his healthy concern over what his barely functional partner is _doing_ on his feet and more specifically at his door, looking blatantly exhausted.

“ _Christ_ , Peril, what—just come in,” he ends up muttering, quickly deciding that yelling at him would be counterproductive and that the most pressing matter is making him _sit down_.

He steps aside, quickly closing the door so that he can offer his support, which he becomes entirely sure is necessary the moment Illya _accepts_ it, unsteady on his feet and clasping Napoleon’s shirt to keep his balance.

Napoleon swallows through the giant lump in his throat and heroically ignores the numerous and intricate knots in his stomach, instead helping Illya down the nearest armchair. Illya lets himself go with a tired exhale, eyes closed and his hand moving to his chest as he leans back and grimaces slightly. Bile quickly rises to Napoleon’s throat, leaving him certain, if only for a few seconds, that he is about to throw up everything he’s ever eaten.

Instead, he asks: “Do you want some water?”

When Illya curtly accepts the offer, he’s more than grateful to step away for a second, breathing through his nausea as he fills the glass, his hands thankfully steady.

_This_ is why he didn’t go visit. Jesus Christ.

In retrospect, he should have figured Illya would find a way to come and chew him for it, half-dead or not, and it might have been smarter to drop by for a visit or two when he was mentally prepared for it, coming equipped with an excuse to flee as soon as possible, but he was kind of hoping that Gaby would be intransigent enough not to let Illya leave her sight.

Ah, well. What’s done is done.

When he comes back to the living room, Illya is sitting up straight and watching him intently, like he’s _studying_ him, and Napoleon has to put some conscious effort into not giving away just how uneasy he feels.

“Well, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, when Illya is done with the water and before he has a chance to ask a question of his own.

“I thought I’d come visit you,” Illya says, flatly. “Since it seems you are too lazy to come yourself.”

Napoleon gives him his broadest smile, and somehow it hurts a little. “Ah, what can I say—I’m a lazy American. I like to sit on my ass and plot my dishonest climb to success.”

Illya huffs, playing with the empty glass that he’s still holding on his knee, but he doesn’t look the least bit amused. He really must be offended if not even some good old jab at Americans and their capitalism cheers him up.

“How did you convince Gaby to let you come anyway?” Napoleon asks then, mostly out of genuine curiosity. He would have expected her to at _least_ be present, to avoid their partner faceplanting on the floor on the way up to his apartment.

Illya presses his lips together, looking a bit guilty. “She can’t watch me all day,” he explains. “She thought I was sleeping, so she went out. I left note.”

Napoleon snorts. “An evasion then?” he says, amused in spite of the situation. “You do realize she will march here as soon as she reads your note, right?”

Illya shrugs, and a twitch on his face proves that it probably wasn’t his best idea of the day. “I just wanted to talk to you. She wouldn’t drive me here.”

Yeah, that’s because Napoleon asked her not to.

Or better, they had an argument, when he announced to her that he wouldn’t help with any nursing duties, just like he had hardly showed his face at the hospital after they’d learned that Illya would be fine. She’d been mad, she’d tried to insist that he should stop hiding away like a coward – though she said it more colourfully –, but eventually, when he’d all but begged her not to let Illya come see him, she had taken pity on him and agreed.

Still, Napoleon has known the man for more than a year now, he shouldn’t have underestimated his stubbornness.

“You asked her not to,” Illya says, and it’s not a question, so Napoleon doesn’t answer.

Instead, he leans back against his armchair and throws another smile his way. Illya is sitting up straight and staring at him intently, but the only thing that Napoleon can see is blood on his shirt and shock on his face.

“Ten bucks says she will break down the door instead of knocking,” Napoleon jokes, only half-serious: Gaby is probably going to decide that this _his_ fault, since he is the one who would not go to visit his injured partner, so he should at least pay for a new door in the name of letting her vent her frustration. It isn’t that bad an argument.

Once again, either the humour flies right over Illya’s head, or he completely ignores it. Either way, all the staring is beginning to get creepy.

Napoleon is just about to find something else meaningless and stupid to say, to buy himself time until Gaby’s arrival, when Illya speaks. “Cowboy,” he says, grave and serious, hanging between them until Napoleon relents and decides to look at him in the eye. “Accidents happen,” Illya simply says, dry and simple like some kind of bare truth, and Napoleon almost laughs.

“Of course!” he answers instead, a little too loud and slightly hysterical. “Of course, accidents happen all the time! Like the other morning when I spilled my coffee all over the paper. _Or_ that time I accidentally walked around in your sweater for a whole day—”

“You did that on purpose,” Illya grumbles, the very first curl of a smile appearing on his face. It makes Napoleon feel a little more at ease, for a second, then his stomach promptly pummels.

“Maybe,” he concedes, and his tone is a little more levelled, because mutual teasing is familiar, that he can do. Not that he should have any right to it anymore. “But it _could_ have been an accident. This—” He gestures to Illya, his throat suddenly tight. “—was attempted murder. No, scratch that, it was almost _successful_ murder.”

He hadn’t _meant_ to, of course, but it doesn’t feel like that counts for much of anything, not when he has years of experience handling weapons, not when he should have _known_ the sound of his partner’s steps instead of turning around and shooting without a second thought, realization kicking in just a split second too late.

Maybe, if he’d been sober, he would feel differently about it. He was supposed to approach the target in a nightclub, and he’d allowed himself to get a little too tipsy because it was supposed to be _easy_ , because he had _back-up_ , and—and then his target got spooked, Napoleon was sent chasing in a place that might have looked like a maze even to a sober man, and he’d _shot_ his back-up.

That wasn’t an accident, that was a terrible mix of stupidity and incompetence.

“You didn’t mean to shoot me,” Illya insists, stubbornly. Then, he levels him with a very unimpressed look. “ _I_ almost killed _you_ once. On purpose.”

Napoleon huffs. “Doesn’t count. We didn’t know each other.” He pauses, glances at him. “And you _told_ me not to drink,” he adds, because it’s true. Illya had, of course, grumbled about his lack of professionalism, Napoleon had argued that being tipsy would help sell the cover – though he was mostly tired and looking to loosen up a little, in all honesty, which they both knew – and that if things started going south he wasn’t alone anyway. Illya had let it slide, probably because there wasn’t anything he could have done to stop him anyway.

Illya hums. “Maybe if you had been sober you wouldn’t have missed,” he muses, a challenge implicit in his tone. It only serves to make Napoleon angry.

“ _Maybe_ if I’d been sober I would have realized that it was _you_ ,” he hisses, something twisting painfully in his chest as he remembers the realization _dawning_ on him, paralyzing him for the few moments necessary for Illya to crumble. He doesn’t think he’s ever sprinted that fast in his whole life, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been that horrified at himself either.

Illya looks at him like he’s half thinking that he’s stupid and half pitying him. “It was just a reflex,” he says, like he’s explaining it to a child. “It’s good thing to have in our line of work.”

“ _Your_ gun was down!” he immediately accuses, because he has a clear picture of it and he’s _sure_ that Illya hadn’t been pointing his gun at him when he turned. His arm was lowered, because _he_ could recognize his own partner.

“I saw you,” Illya says, evenly.

And alright, maybe, but _still_ — “Gaby didn’t even speak to me for two days,” Napoleon says, because maybe that will make him understand, because Gaby _gets_ it, she understands it was his own stupidity that led them there.

Truth be told, they were both preoccupied and he didn’t speak much to her either, but she was _mad_ , it was evident, and—she may have gone back to normal afterwards, when things seemed to be looking up a little and they weren’t both as on edge, but _still_ , just because she has realized that it makes no sense to hold this grudge with Illya alive it doesn’t mean that she _forgot_.

“She isn’t mad at you,” Illya says, his tone a little too soft.

Napoleon snorts. “Well, she was. And she was right.” He pauses, and he didn’t mean to continue, but the words slip out all the same. “I was stupid, and careless, and here we are now. I didn’t even have the decency to pay with my own blood.”

For a few moments, Illya just blinks at him. “Cowboy,” he says then, slowly. “I am tired and sore, and you are being very dramatic.”

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” Napoleon mutters, wondering why exactly he hasn’t gotten up to get himself a drink already.

Illya gives him an unamused look. “How about you just apologize?”

It’s stupid and it definitely won’t do anything to make Napoleon feel less shitty, but hey, he’s still waiting on Gaby to save him by breaking down the door, and this is a good way to buy himself some time as any. “I’m really sorry,” he says, and he’d meant for it to be exaggerated, a bit of a joke, instead it comes out a little choked and way too honest.

Illya stares at him like he’s _actually_ considering the merits of his apology, then he nods. “It’s okay,” he says, his tone serious. He waits a few beats. “Is it better?” he asks, a little hesitant, and Napoleon wants to laugh until he cries, because _seriously_? Does he think that his life matters so little to him that a simple ‘it’s okay’ would make him forget that he almost _took_ it?

(It would have been his first time accidentally stealing something, and he doesn’t like the experience.)

“Nope,” he says instead, rubbing his face with one hand.

That is when the pounding starts, Gaby’s voice immediately rising above it. “Solo!” she’s yelling. “Solo! Open up!”

“Ah, there she is,” Napoleon breathes out, clapping his hands over his tights and pushing himself up. “Good luck to both of us.”

Illya makes a face that proves he knows he’s in trouble, and Napoleon ponders, without much humour, that technically he owes it to him to step in front of the proverbial bullet.

“Tell me he’s here,” Gaby says, as soon as Napoleon has opened the door and before he’s had the time to utter a word.

“Yup, still here and trying to catch his breath on my armchair,” Napoleon announces, stepping away with a wide smile. He doesn’t miss the relief that flashes on her face, and it only makes him think of how _close_ Illya came to dying. He feels faintly sick, but he ignores it in favour of tuning in on the show before him.

“What were you _thinking_?!” Gaby thunders, arms crossed and tone inflamed.

Illya looks a little chastised, but he raises his chin and meets her eyes when he says, evenly: “You wouldn’t take me.”

She doesn’t so much as waver, though her frown deepens. “You are supposed to _rest_.”

He gives her a bit of a smile, patting the armrest. “I _am_ resting.”

Gaby raises her eyebrows, looking between the two of them like she can _smell_ the leftover tension in the room. “Sure,” she says, profoundly sarcastic and with a pointed look at Napoleon. He takes it, probably rightfully so, as an accusation.

“Oh, believe me, _he_ is the one stressing _me_ out,” he says, which is not even a lie.

“Then you will be _really_ cross to find out that here—” She takes off the bag she was carrying over her shoulder, and Napoleon mentally kicks himself for not registering it any sooner. “—I have clothes and his medication. He’s staying here for the night.”

Napoleon blinks at her. “What?”

Did she just—?

She looks thoroughly unfazed, carefully depositing the bag next to the nearest armchair and levelling him with a blank look. “I have things to do tonight, he already moved around too much for the day, _clearly_ he wants your company and you owe me a lot of hours of nursing duty.”

“I’m still here,” Illya points out, but Napoleon barely registers him over the static currently filling his head. He _can’t_ deal with this. He was counting on Gaby to drag Illya home, he—he absolutely _cannot_ do this.

“I don’t even know what’s in there!” is the best defence that he can come up with, gesturing towards the bag and scrambling to find an excuse, something, _anything_ that won’t make him sound like a complete asshole.

Well, there’s breaking down crying and explaining that he feels _really_ shitty about this whole thing, but that should be a very last resort and probably wouldn’t win him any solitude anyway.

“He knows which medications he has to take,” Gaby says, waving a dismissing hand.

“Still here,” Illya mutters. He doesn’t sound particularly offended or concerned, even though he _should_ , because who in their right _mind_ would be okay with crashing at the apartment of the person who put them in the hospital in the first place?

By the time Napoleon recovers at least part of his mental faculties, Gaby is saying goodbye to Illya with a quick kiss on his temple and a recommendation to _sleep_ , and he ends up having to chase her as she heads to the door.

“Are you _serious_?!” he hisses, feeling more than a little betrayed.

Already outside of the door, she gives him a look that edges too much towards pitying for his tastes. “Look, he is not mad, and you will have to face him sooner or later,” she says, like that solves anything at all.

“Make it later,” he mutters. Or never. He should have run away, grown a moustache and changed his name.

“No, it’s now,” she says, matter of fact. She gives him a sympathetic pat on the arm. “Good luck,” she adds, before turning her back and abandoning him to his sorry fate.

Great.

Napoleon slowly closes the door, lingering with his nose a few inches from it and wondering if he should just make a run for it. Ordinarily, Illya would probably catch him, but, well— _oh, yes, great, do take advantage of the fact that you shot him, way to go, Solo_.

“You said ten bucks, didn’t you?” Illya voice suddenly cuts in, startling him.

Napoleon turns without thinking, finding that Illya is staring at him and looking somehow amused. “What?” he asks, without even trying to understand what he means.

“She didn’t break down the door,” Illya grins, with a brief tilt of his head.

Oh, yeah, right. That.

It’s surprisingly easy to put a smile on his face and start arguing over whether the bet counts or not, considering that Illya didn’t explicitly agree to it, but Napoleon finds that he can’t really get lost in it, tense and uneasy in a way he is not used to being around his partners anymore.

He's aware that it’s a terrible idea, but he spends the rest of the evening meticulously cataloguing each and every one of Illya’s expressions and movements, looking for signs of discomfort, or distrust. It irritates him to no end that he can find _nothing_ , not a flinch nor a wary look, nothing at all: Illya is being perfectly normal, taking jabs at him and trying to glare him into submission when Napoleon chastises him for trying to set the table, giving him back-handed compliments for his food even though he doesn’t hide how much he’s enjoying it, and not _once_ bringing up the elephant in the room.

It’s wrong and maddening and Napoleon wants to scream.

To make matters worse, as the evening goes on Napoleon’s discomfort begins to ease, though his guilt is never far from his mind, and he begins to relax, falling back into familiar patterns and being left with nothing but the realization of how much he’d missed him, during his self-inflicted period of isolation.

For a moment, he’s even grateful that Waverly met his request for a transfer with a good-natured look and a ‘If Mr Kuryakin truly is uncomfortable, we will do something about it, don’t you worry about it now’, even after Napoleon did his best to paint himself as an incompetent idiot who wouldn’t know which way to fire a bullet if he had written instructions at hand.

But then Illya grimaces with pretty much every movement and he has to drown a bunch of pills after dinner, and Napoleon goes right back to choking and wondering what the hell they are _doing_ here.

He doesn’t voice any of his thoughts, because he doesn’t think he could stand to argue about it now, but he never lets his mind wander off them again.

Illya starts yawning not long after dinner, and Napoleon is somewhat thankful when he accepts to at least get settled in the bed – because of course he can’t let his injured partner sleep on the couch, even though it’s a pretty comfortable one.

Gathered as many pillows as he could find and propping Illya up so that he can lie down in the least amount of pain possible, though he was assured that it’s fine and that’s what the painkillers are for, Napoleon immediately gets ready to flee and have a more outward, if as silent as possible, freak-out.

Illya, of course, doesn’t agree: as soon as Napoleon wishes him goodnight and attempts to go, he takes a hold of his sleeve, pulling him towards him with enough force to make him sway a little. “Stay,” he says, and it doesn’t exactly sound like an order.

His throat dry and his heart hammering, the best thing that Napoleon can come up with is a weak: “I can take the couch.”

“I don’t want you to,” Illya says, matter-of-factly, which is actually a bit cruel, because it leaves him no chance to just—finesse this. It’s either ‘well, I don’t’ or ‘okay’. And the worst part about it is that—he _wants_ to, actually. He can feel himself longing to say yes and just stay there until he has himself convinced that everything is okay and the world didn’t end. The problem is he _shouldn’t_.

Illya tugs at him, impatient. “Come on,” he insists. “It’s big bed.”

Well, yes. That it is.

And Napoleon is, ultimately, a selfish and greedy being who has a really hard time saying no to the things he wants.

He nods, getting settled on the bed, half sitting the way Illya is, their shoulders pressed against each other. Illya doesn’t let go of his sleeve, like he’s afraid that he might run out at his first distraction, and Napoleon doesn’t call him out on it.

It’s after an eternity of heavy silence and carefully controlled breathing while his head spins around in circles, when he isn’t even sure that Illya is still awake, that Napoleon decides to speak.

“How are you not mad?” he asks, quietly, and honesty is a little easier while staring straight ahead in the semidarkness.

“You didn’t mean to,” Illya says after only a moment, his voice low like he’s already half asleep. “And you are mad enough for both of us.”

Napoleon snorts. “I’ll hand you that one.” Silence falls again, but Napoleon can’t stand it for long. “I really am sorry,” he says, and maybe it’s a little too pleading, but at this point he can’t think of his pride or dignity, he just has to say it.

Illya hums sleepily. “I know.” He pulls at Napoleon’s sleeve until his fingers are curled up against Illya’s thigh. “I forgive you.”

Napoleon’s breath catches, the words hitting him harder than they should have, considering that they are hardly surprising. “Okay,” he manages to say, his voice a little shaky. It’s not, but—nothing to be done about it now. And it’s not Illya’s problem anyway.

Illya huffs, either sensing or guessing the lie, and he shifts to press himself harder against him, taking residence on his shoulder the way Napoleon has more often than not done with him during long flights. He does it because Illya is comfortable and he makes him feel, for lack of a better word, _safe_ , crowded airplane or not, nerves before or after a mission or not.

His first thought is that Illya might have similar motives right now. The idea strides loudly against his guilt, something in his brain loudly rejecting it and almost making him want to push Illya off, but ultimately it manages to give him a little bit of hope, just enough for it to be dangerous.

He does his best to keep still and calm, because at least he can be a good pillow. He means to get up as soon as he’s sure that Illya has fallen asleep.

Obviously, he doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 

> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


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